


Dance Monkey

by nirvhannahcornell (josiebelladonna)



Category: Bandom, Slayer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Choking, Doggy Style, F/M, Hand Jobs, Licking, Missionary Position, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shower Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22364323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: It’s been quite the long day and all Tom and Belinda want is to relax and unwind.Right.
Relationships: Tom Araya/Original Female Character
Kudos: 1





	Dance Monkey

**Author's Note:**

> By request.  
> AM Kelley’s got a point when she says Slayer fic is unseen (gosh, and I thought Anthrax were an untapped world). Named after the Tones and I song.  
> Oh! And feel free to request me stuff—I’ll write up the ones I like! 😘

She sets down her comb on the top of the table and gives her bangs one final push of the fingers to keep them in place. She had just gotten out of the shower following quite the long day at school: four classes and eight hours during three full days, it only made sense to unwind come Friday evening. Fortunately for her, this is a three-day weekend, meaning she has the opportunity to spend even more time with Tom all the way into Tuesday.

No one ever would’ve guessed she and Tom are dating one another: she’s bit of a plain woman with a short bob of reddish brown hair and geek, horn-rimmed glasses over a pale, peaches-and-cream complexion. Tom swears she has skin akin to alabaster and that he loves to kiss it whenever he can. He also loves to hold her, feeling up the lush, thick curves of her body when the moment is just right. And she can never seem to get enough of playing around with his hair while laying in bed.

But she’s merely the student, the young art kid hailing from back East now relocated out here in the heart of Los Angeles so as to be with Tom, and of course, to attend school.

She still recalls the day in which they met, wherein she helped out Kerry paint the designs his guitar. She was just another concertgoer, right there walking by the backstage area well before the show to meet up with her friends at the time, and he reached out for her advice on how it looked—something about the designer getting some of it completely wrong in the color scheme or the like—and she took the offer in correcting the otherwise ostentatious neon green and orange color balance by bringing in more dark green and some red. Kerry was even kind enough to let her add a little bit of a bellflower touch on her own part, painting a couple of the fiery red convex flowers near the pick guard. Dave made a joke how it was for good luck, but she took that as a compliment.

Soon thereafter, Tom came over to her with his long luxurious jet black curls, part of which dangled down in his large twinkling brown eyes, and his sturdy, stalwart suntanned arms out in the open for her to see, and they started talking about art and music: the next thing she knew, he offered her his number. She had introduced herself to him as Belinda, but he and his band mates could always refer to her as simply Bel.

In the meantime since then, she fought her way to her full ride scholarship to the nice art school in Long Beach, and to make things even better, she and Tom were advancing their relationship along, merely over the phone, after school for her and after a show for him. It had come such a long way well enough that they declared the both of them ready enough to live with each other.

Thus, here they are, living in this cute cozy little one-bedroom apartment about ten minutes from her school and with a decent rent and modest view of the ocean from the porch.

Bel stands to her feet and adjusts the towel around her waist so that it looks as though she’s rocking a skirt to accompany her chic black bra lined with peach colored lace. She hears the front door open right then.

“Bel? Belinda?”

She pokes her head out from the bedroom to find him lugging his guitar case over his shoulder.

“Hey, babe!” she calls back, fixing the towel again as she ambles towards him.

“God—what a day.”

“How’d it go?” She presses her free hand onto her other hip to put more emphasis on the curvature of the middle of her body.

He sets down the bottom of the guitar case on the floor, and leans the neck up against the wall next to the entrance to the kitchen. He gives his hair a quick toss back from the side of his neck with a flick of the wrist, just in time to see her approaching him. He stands upright for a better look at her: wearing nothing but a towel around her waist and that black and peach bra, and her auburn hair dripping wet.

“Oh my,” he gasps out, bringing a hand to his chest.

“Like what you see here, Tommy boy?” she teases him, twirling her hips a bit which in turn makes the hem of the towel flutter about.

“I think you and I both know the answer to that, my Bonita Bel,” he replies with a mischievous smirk and a wink. She lingers closer to him with her left hand gripping onto the edges of the towel; she lifts her right hand to stroke his chest. The mischievous smirk never wavers or fades from his full face.

“I know what you want,” she whispers to him, showing him the pad of her tongue.

“Do you now?” he challenges her, raising his eyebrows. “What if I wanted to take a shower myself?” They hang there in a bout of silence, and then she peers down at his waist.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she retorts, lingering before his face as though she’s about to kiss him, but she never does. Bel steps back so as to let him have a moment to himself.

Tom runs his fingers through his hair again before reaching down and peeling off his shirt. It wasn’t even a little bit warm that day and yet he had been sweating as though the Pineapple Express had gone through. He tosses his shirt over his shoulder and makes his way down the hall to the bathroom, humming to himself all the while.

On the drive home from the studio, the radio had played a sliver of that one Michael Buble song, the one that talked about feeling good because it was a new dawn, a new day, and a new life. And yet those thirty seconds before the block of static kicked in deemed enough for the song to wedge itself into his mind. He hums the melody to himself as he strips off his jeans and his shorts, and switches on the water.

He climbs inside of the pale white tub, pulls the curtain closed, and stands there on the bath mat for a few seconds with his head bowed and his eyes pinched shut in order to acquaint himself with the warm feel of the water. He allows it to soak down his hair down to the roots first before he reaches for the bar soap in the dish there next to his knees.

Something catches his eye: he takes a peek up at the edge of the curtain to recognize the side of her knee right there before him. Part of the water trickles into his eyes as he takes a peek up at her wearing nothing for him.

“You got room for one more?” Bel asks him over the whir of the shower head. “I put a little lube on.” And he stands upright so as to turn the shower head away from her.

“Come on in!” he declares, leaning back to give her some room. Bel puts one foot into the tub first, followed by her other. Even though her hair had already been washed, she doesn’t mind soaking down a bit more, especially with him in there with her.

Bel puts her arms around Tom’s sturdy body and plants a firm kiss on his lips. His fingers follow the curvature of her hips and then her back: her skin is soft like silk against his own, and since she already took a shower, the soft aroma lining her hair fills his nose. Her hands slide up towards the base of his neck and the wet tendrils of black hair sticking onto his back. The warm water envelopes them like a soft blanket as they make love for a moment. Tom releases her lips to grin at her through the running water.

He then reaches down to her chest to run his fingers around the rim of her nipple, first her left followed by her right. His touch is light and delicate as a feather, so light that every firmer stroke makes her breathing pick up a little bit more.

“Come on,” he beckons her.

“You come on,” she teases him. He brings his lips down to her left nipple, such that the nappy crown of his head blocks the continual stream of water. He gazes into her eyes as he parts his lips a bit right before her nipple. He gives her a gentle suckling at first, and then pulls back to gaze up at her again.

“Do it again, baby,” she coaxes him. He does a couple more times, and on the third time, he lets his tongue slither out from his mouth onto her pale skin. The droplets of water on her skin only emphasizes the taste of her skin. Meanwhile, her toes curl right into the bath mat. She can feel herself growing wet, and not from the channel of moisture around her.

“Turn around if you can,” he commands her. She sets one hand on the wall next to them and gingerly turns around on the bath mat. Bel then stoops over and pokes out her butt for him.

“Hold on—“ he tells her. She keeps her hand on the wall and her other hand on the rim of the tub to steady herself. Without another moment’s hesitation, he thrusts forward right square in her ass. It’s a bit tricky from the running water but every heave and push on his part sends her heart into a frenzy. At this point, the lube had hardly done the trick because the feel of his tongue on her nipple had proved adequate.

He then thrusts so hard that the bar soap falls off of the shelf.

“Oops! Shit—“

“Hang on—“ he encourages her, and she loses her balance. Bel catches herself on the shower curtain and Tom lets go of her hips.

“We really need a bigger shower,” he remarks.

“Right!” she declares, picking herself into an upright position. She inches around to look at him straight on. “You did good, though.” She lovingly pats the side of his face, and then he reaches to his right for his washcloth.

“Want me to get the soap?” she offers him.

“Please.”

Bel crouches down: her ass and her lips still throb from his thrusts. Such a tight spot for them to get down like a couple of dogs, but she only craves more. More skin, more of his tongue, more of his skin under her tongue... she wants it all from Tom. She hands him the bar, presenting it to him on three fingers as though she’s presenting him a silver platter, as she’s still crouched down on the bath mat. She eyes the tip of his dick, still firm and taut from his erection, right there over her head. Something within her tells her to hold onto that elongated beauty and give it the most gentle series of strokes courtesy of her fingers.

Tom takes the soap with the washcloth lining his hand, and stares into her eyes all the while.

“I know what you want,” he tells her, taking the soap and scrubbing down his arms.

“And I know what you want,” she retorts: once she stands upright, she holds onto his length with her free hand. She doesn’t stroke or caress him, but rather holds him for a moment before letting go and climbing out of the shower to fetch her towel off of the counter top.

Tom washes himself down with the soft smelling soap resting within the cloth, and then he moves onto the peppery shampoo for his hair. Within time, he’s smelling sweet and fresh, as the water washes away the residual filth leftover from walking in LA all day long. He rinses off and switches off the water.

Tom stands there for a moment in order to let the water trickle out of his hair and onto his lower back. He still has the song playing in his head that he can’t help but hum it some more.

He slings his hair around to wring out the remaining water, and then he opens the curtain again for his towel on the rung next to the edge of the shower. He dries off his arms first, followed by his chest and his stomach, and then the tops of his legs. He’s gentle to hold onto his hair and wrap it up in the towel atop his head.

At that point, Tom mutters to himself as he climbs out of the shower. His muttering turns into whispered singing. The small sliver of song he heard wasn’t enough, but that doesn’t stop him from making up lyrics along the way.

He pauses for a second to glance about the bathroom for his silky robe. All is in here are a couple of hand towels and a fresh, unused washcloth next to the faucet.

A short walk back to the bedroom proves to be not too much of challenge, even with this one towel on his head. Still humming to himself, Tom opens the door, only to be greeted by a rush of cool air there in the apartment. Chills spread over his skin, which in turn causes the hair on his arms and his chest stand upright. But this doesn’t stop him from crossing the floor to the bedroom to fetch his silken bathrobe from the closet. Bel isn’t in here, thus leaving him with the opportunity to surprise her.

He reaches into the closet for his robe, hanging there near the back wall, and wraps it around his bare naked body. As he’s tying the belt around his waist, he can’t help himself: he starts singing under his breath. Or so he thinks.

Bel strides into the room right then with bit of a puzzled expression on her lovely face, but she can’t help but smile at him, and in particular the towel atop his head. Tom pauses for a second in order to adjust the lapels of his robe and flash her another mischievous grin.

“You know...” he starts, lowering the tone of his voice a bit, “I am feeling like such a king right now. I have got my girl, all the rough recordings are being mastered and mixed, the rent is paid, and now I am as clean—“ He slinks down onto the bed, right behind her hip; she turns her head to find him laying in his side with his head propped up on his right hand. “—as a bell.”

“It’s clear as a bell, baby boy,” she corrects him.

“Whatever,” he admits with a shrug. A part of the towel unravels off of the top and hangs down to the top of the bed.

“What do you keep singing, by the way?” she asks him, leaning back on her hands a bit.

“This Buble song I caught thirty seconds of on the way home. It’s stuck in my head.”

“Explains why you’re feeling like a king.” She turns around all the way to find him laying there as if modeling for her.

“Couldn’t exactly get down there in the shower,” she remarks in a near whisper.

“No, we couldn’t,” he retorts, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face.

“Well, Tommy boy, we’re both in towels. We’re both dripping wet—well, one of us is, anyways.”

He shows her the tip of his tongue.

“Whaddya want?” she asks him.

“Sit on my face,” he commands her. “Go ahead. I’m waiting. Sit—on—my—face.”

“Sit on your own damn face,” she teases him.

“I wanna know how you taste,” he insists.

“You already know how I taste, though.”

“But it’s so delicious.”

“Magically delicious?”

“But of course! Now, come on—“ He rolls over onto his back with his arms spread out over the bed behind her.

“I want your pussy to put my ass to sleep.”

“Now why would you want that?” she scoffs, turning over so her chest is hanging over his face. “Why would you want your cute little ass put to sleep by my bloomin’ pussy?”

“‘Cause your flower needs watering,” he retorts in a husky, velvety voice. He shows her his tongue yet again, and she sinks down closer to his face for an open lipped kiss with a bit more tongue involved.

She feels his tongue running along the edge of her teeth before it extends back to her throat. Bel lays down over him so she can hold onto either side of his face. Her black bra means nothing to him anymore: his hands slither behind her back so as to unhook it. The straps slide down her shoulders as she lifts up a bit. She lets her fingers curl around the front of his neck.

“Be a good boy,” she whispers into his face, “be a good boy and give mama what she wants.” Her words creep over him like the slithering tongue of a serpent. He writhes and chokes for air as she tightens her grip on his neck. He closes his eyes and holds his breath.

The blood rushes to his head upon her release of his neck. He gasps as his chest begins to heave.

Bel lets her bra fall off of her arms as she climbs over his thighs. She pushes back the flaps of the robe to reveal his dark skin. Her eyes gleaming, she holds onto his shaft with one hand and caresses with the other.

His head pounds from the increased blood flow within him. He’s about to come, even more so given her gentle touch on his tightening skin is driving him closer and closer to the brink.

“Not yet,” she whispers.

“Oh God,” he groans, snapping his eyes shut. Bel continues to stroke him with her free thumb and two fingers. Each touch sends a chill up his spine and all around his thighs.

She lets go to glide her fingertips along the top of his thighs. He rolls his head over the top of the bed, such that the towel unravels and falls off part of the way.

She opens her mouth to give him a good licking. First her fingers and now her tongue!

Tom rolls his head the other way, and the towel falls right off and onto the edge of the mattress. He surrenders to the feeling.

“Not yet,” she whispers again, this time in between licks.

“God fucking damn it!” he howls.

“You’re being a bad, bad boy,” she teases him, wagging her finger at him. “You’re going to have to dance for me.”

“Dance?” he sputters, his voice breaking.

Bel lets go of him and looms over his face in a push-up position.

“Dance for me, baby boy,” she orders in a husky voice. “I want you to grind me. Come to mama.”

She rolls over onto her back and opens her legs for him. Breathing hard, Tom sits up and climbs over her.

“Grind me,” she commands, never raising the tone of her voice, “grind me like you mean it, baby!”

He takes a seat and begins gyrating. He holds onto her hips to keep her steady. Her eyes gleam at the sight of him, right there, right on top of her. She shows him the tip of her tongue from in between her teeth.

“Harder,” she hisses at him. “Harder, dammit!”

Tom gyrates his hips so hard that his knees start aching. But he continues, fucking her silly and making the mattress underneath them creak.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that!” she eggs him on.

He sinks in deeper that time, which in turn makes her moan out in a state of complete and utter euphoria. Tom bars his teeth and lets out an odd, guttural growl that sounds like a creature.

“You dirty dog,” she teases, “you nasty filthy dog!”

He lifts out in time to come on his part, which in turn brings out another groan from him. Tom falls face down on the bed next to her, his wet black hair sprawling all around the sides of his head and his arms. Bel breathes out a long low pleased whistle as she rolls her head over to look at him.

“Good boy,” she tells him in a broken, soft voice. “Always such a good boy.”

“Am I still king?” he asks, his voice muffled by the top cover.

“Well, it depends. Is the song still stuck in your head?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then you’re still king, baby. And I think you’re laying on my bra...”


End file.
